


Westward Leading, Still Proceeding

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, Gen, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Major Character Injury, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27911701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: An incident at the halfway house leads Sam to reevaluate where he calls home.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: We Three Kings [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1306616
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Westward Leading, Still Proceeding

_Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment. But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: he shall be in danger of hell fire._ \--Matthew 5:21,22

*

  
“Want a Dum Dum?” Andy asked, as soon as Sam opened the passenger side door of his van. Andy had agreed to swing by the bookstore and give him a ride home, since Dean still couldn’t drive and Cas was on shift.

“What is this?” Sam asked, shoving half a dozen wrappers off the seat and onto the floor of Andy’s van.

“Sublimating.”

“What, you’re eating dozens of little lollipops instead of smoking a bong?”

“Whatever gets you through, right?” Andy grinned and pulled the stick out his mouth, pretending to blow. “Just like old times.”

Sam shut the door and tossed his backpack behind him. Andy still didn’t move. “Well? Can you drive and suck a sucker?”

“Seatbelt,” he said primly.

“Seat—” Sam shook his head. “Even _Dean_ doesn’t nag me to wear a seatbelt.”

“Well this is a safe ride.” Andy tossed the stick in the back and reached for another out of the industrial-size bag of Dum Dums nestled between him and the passenger seat. “Sure you don’t want one?”

“I’m good.”

Andy nodded at the backpack as he pulled away from the bookstore. “You stay over at Dean’s and Cas’ last night?”

“Yeah. It was Dean’s first day of physical therapy.”

“How’s he hanging?”

“He’s how he always is—loud.” Andy laughed. “Dean does _not_ do well when he can’t move around like he’s used to. The garage called Cas because he was trying to get himself under a car and couldn’t get himself back up.”

“Cas deserves...something. His patience is unreal, man.” Andy turned his blinker on. “Does he ever get pissed?”

“He’s more the...snipe and run,” Sam said carefully, thinking of the few times Cas had given him a verbal smack-down. They always stung. And Cas was always so sorry afterward. Missouri had deduced, rightfully, that Cas hadn’t been allowed to express his anger or frustrations to anyone growing up, and learning how to do so constructively—without falling into the violent outbursts his brothers frequented—was an ongoing issue for him, one that they all needed to be patient with and help him feel safe when he _did_ try and express something that bothered him. “He lost it at Dean the other night though.”

“He yelled?”

“No. No, I’ve never heard him raise his voice. He told Dean that he was an ‘obnoxious, disrespectful, petty little brat,’ and then told me that ‘your brother has the unique ability to anger me more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Andy laughed again, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth as he did. “What is _with_ that guy? He talks like a British docudrama.”

“He’s...reserved.” Sam remembered meeting Michael Morgan all too well, and it was eerie to think of how similar his and Cas’ speech patterns had been. But Cas was closer to Dean at heart than he’d ever be to his oldest brother. As different as Cas and Dean could seem, Sam got them: they’d both been forced to fall in line at a young age, shove aside their own feelings to try and keep peace, and, while both could come across as callous, or even cold, they were both deeply loyal, loving people at heart, who just wanted to fit in and be accepted without the threat of losing everything. Cas’ cool, level head allowed Dean to fall back on him when he struggled, and Dean’s warmth and open, easy expression of emotion allowed Cas to do things like name-call without fear of retribution. It was a big step for them both, and one Sam was happy to see them take.

“You’re not worried they’re gonna split, are you?” Andy asked.

“No. I don’t think anyone else could stand either one of them.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Andy tossed a second empty stick toward the back and unwrapped another lollipop.

“Okay...seriously, man. What’s with the sweet tooth?”

“Told you,” Andy grinned. Sam cocked an eyebrow. Andy shrugged. “Just...it’s finals time.”

“You’ve done plenty of finals.”

“I know, but...I’m used to smoking when I’m stressed. And doing a line or two when I need to rev up.”

“I get what you’re trying to do, but it’s not going to help if you ace this semester and lose all your teeth.”

Andy bit into the pop. “Just...I got a lot more to lose now, you know? Tracy, and my scholarship, and you guys...”

“Dude, none of us are going to think less of you if you slip.”

“I’m trying _not_ to.”

“And I’m here to help.”

“You got enough on you,” Andy said carefully.

“Oh for— _now_ who’s ruining a moment?”

The halfway house came into view. Andy pulled over, set the parking’ brake and ‘be right back lights,’ and sighed. “I’m just...trying to support my Dad, and you guys, and Tracy, and keep it all together, and for the first time, I’m really feeling it...you know?”

“You tell Rosemount?”

“Yeah. But it’s not helping. I don’t want to up my meds or take a yoga class. I just...want to have a degree and know that I did it, and I mostly did it clean. And then...we’ll see.”

“I can study with you.” Andy looked at him warily. Sam smiled. “I mean it. It’d be fun. I’ll quiz you, look over your papers. You can come by, have dinner with me and Cas and Dean, the nights I see them, and then I’ll help you work.”

Andy hesitated. “Really? It...wouldn’t stress you?”

“No way.”

“You’ll tell me if it does, right?”

“Sure thing.”

Andy seemed to relax suddenly. “Thanks,” he sighed. “Thanks, man. That’d be...awesome.”

Sam reached over and squeezed his friend’s shoulder, grabbed up his backpack, and shut the van’s door. Andy called “remember to wave!”, meaning to come to the front window and let him know he was in safely and everything was fine. After Sam had inadvertently ingested heroine stashed in a saltshaker by three—since banned—housemates, Andy always wanted to make sure he was in and felt safe before he pulled away.

Ash usually left the front door unlocked when he was home during the day, which was most of the time. He was a techie who did a lot of free lance research for security firms—something Sam could never quite understand, given his redneck appearance and eccentric persona—and prided himself in being available to those he took in. He stepped over the threshold, dropped his backpack, and turned toward the front window when he heard a shout from the back of the house. He hesitated before making his way slowly toward the kitchen.

“Bro, we can talk this through okay? But you gotta put. That. Thing. _Down._ ”

“You don’t _get_ it!” Max roared, voice strained and tearful. “No one _gets it_!”

“I can get it, man, but not while you’ve got that thing locked and loaded.”

“Ash?” Sam called carefully. “Max?”

“Sam,” Ash warned. “Go back outside, dude.”

“ _No one’s leaving this house_!” Max roared. Sam turned the corner and found Ash standing, hands up, in the middle of the kitchen. Max had a pistol held on him, but quickly shifted it to Sam. His hands, shirt, pants, and even face had blood spatters on them—Sam’s heart began to race.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Max and me, we’re just talking. Right, pal?” Ash smiled. “Just talking.”

“Max...are you hurt?” Sam asked.

“Shut the _hell_ up, Sam,” Max snapped. “I am so sick of you. Of _all_ of you. Ash, you’re a redneck idiot. Sam, you’re a spoiled brat. I’d have _killed_ for a brother like Dean. Imagine facing _two_ of your Dad and a Mom who didn’t care, _alone_. You’re a bunch of _idiots_ who don’t deserve anything you have!”

“Max...” Ash began, but the front door slammed shut.

“Sam!” Andy called, heading toward the kitchen. “Dude! What was that? You know the drill. Wave when you’re in okay.”

“Andy, go outside,” Sam pleaded.

“What’s wrong?”

“ _Go_!”

Max fired. Ash shouted, Sam ducked, and Andy dropped.

“No!” Sam wailed.

Ash took a step forward and Max fired again. The elder man barely got his head down in time—tufts of hair hit the floor.

“Holy _shit_!” Ash shouted. Sam launched himself over a kitchen chair and straight at Max, who shouted

“Stay back or you’re next!”

Sam froze, staring at the barrel of the gun. For a second he was back in that filthy alley with Crowley, and, just like then, he was going to be damned before he’d let some selfish maniac take him out. He was through being a victim. He’d worked too damn _hard_ to be a victim.

Sam faked left, and Max swung the pistol sideways, missing Sam’s immediate crouch and low tackle. All the hours Dean had spent with him, practicing and playing sports to keep them out of the house paid off. He hit Max hard and low while the gun was pointed high and left. Max fired, but the bullet shattered the kitchen window, and then the two hit the ground and Max lost his grip.

“No!” Max wailed, and Sam pulled back just enough to punch him in the jaw. “It’s not f—” Max rasped, and then Sam hit him again, just like Dean had shown him, and the boy was out.

For a few seconds, Ash, Andy, and Sam just sat, breathing hard. Then Sam reached out and picked up the gun.

“Ash,” he said slowly. “You need to call 911.”

“Had ‘em on speaker the whole time,” Ash said. In the distance, a siren started. “Goddamn man. That—”

“Dude!” Andy said, eyes wide. “You were like Samuel L. Jackson or something!”

“I’m gonna go with Ving Rhames.”

“Will Smith!”

“Bruce Willis.”

“Indiana Jones!”

“Angelina Jolie.” Sam glared at him. “Circa Tomb Raider!”

“Ash, get something to tie Max’s hands with,” Sam snapped. He placed the gun on the counter, belatedly wishing he hadn’t gotten his fingerprints on it, and found some clean dish towels to bring to Andy.

“I can’t believe he _shot_ me,” Andy said, chuckling nervously. His right hand was clamped on his left shoulder, but Sam could see blood already. “Who _does_ that?”

“Next time I don’t wave encouragingly…keep going, okay?” Andy let him pull his hand away and place a towel at his back and another against his front.

“I didn’t know you had that in you. You were always… _Sammy_.” Andy frowned. “You’re not some like…under-cover spy or a reporter or something are you?”

“Shutup.” Sam forced pressure onto Andy’s wound, and his friend hissed.

“Okay, that—that is starting to suck.”

“Easy does it,” Sam murmured. “It’s not bad.”

“Do me a favor? Don’t tell them I’m an addict. I don’t want them skimping on the pain meds.”

“You’ll be fine.” Sam moved a little closer to his friend and gave his hand a light squeeze as he coaxed him to hold the towel. “Ash? You got Max’s hands?”

“I’m on it.”

“Shit... _shit_ , dude, my arm’s going numb.” Andy’s eyes grew wide and damp.

“You’re okay,” Sam assured him. “Stay still, and stay upright, alright? I gotcha.”

“So much for writing papers,” Andy tried to joke, but he was growing pale. _Shock_.

“You’re not getting out of that. I can type for you,” Sam teased. _Keep him awake. Keep him calm. Keep him talking._ Sirens started up in the distance. Sam dropped his voice. “Those are for you, buddy. Few more minutes.”

Andy’s good hand gripped the edge of his shirt. “Do you think you could ride with me?”

“Sure. Don’t worry, okay?”

“Shit...” Andy flinched and swallowed, hard. “My Dad...can you call my Dad? I don’t want the cops to. He’ll shit himself.”

“Yeah. I’ll let everyone know. Quit worrying.”

“Tracy too...damnit.” Andy bit his lips, sweat working down from his hairline. “Did I ever tell you I don’t have a very high pain threshold?”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I landed on a tuna can lid, pulled it out myself, and then took stitches from a Priest with nothing but an old Percocet?”

Andy glared. “Angelina,” he muttered.

“Ving Rhames,” Sam corrected. Outside, they heard the sirens grow louder and halt abruptly, signaling the arrival of help. Andy tugged harder on his friend’s shirt.

“Please...don’t go until they make you,” he whispered, losing his battle with a tear. Sam smiled.

“We’ve come way too far for it _not_ to be okay,” he assured him, as the front door burst open and the first of the officers spilled in.

***

When Sam finally let go of Andy’s good hand—with a promise to his damp eyed, shocky friend to see him as soon as he was awake—and watched as they swept him off into surgery, he felt his own nerves suddenly jolt as the situation caught up with him. He stood in the Emergency room, where a few patients sat drowsily by, and the admittance staff typed away, and a nurse or two called out names, and had no idea what to do next.

“Sam?” a familiar voice asked. Cas’ friend—Peter. Doctor. Balthazar. “Are you alright? What are you here for?” The doctor approached him, frowning when he saw blood on Sam’s hand and shirt. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s not mine,” he said.

“Whose is it?”

“My friend Andy. Someone in my house shot him.”

“Have a seat.”

“No. I have to...” he blanked once more.

“Have a seat,” the elder man coaxed. “I’ll go grab Cas for you, okay? Are _you_ hurt?”

“My friend was shot. I rode with him.”

“Alright. Let me get Cas. Sit down before you keel over.”

Sam didn’t. He stood very still and practiced the breathing techniques Cas had taught him long ago, holding his air for longer than normal and slowly letting it out. While his rational mind told him that Andy’s wound hadn’t been life-threatening, his stupid nerves weren’t listening. His psyche was taking up its old chant of _everyone you love dies because of you_ and he needed something to ground himself before he lost it.

When the elevator dinged down the hallway, a few more nurses, and a few visitors spilled out, and then Cas shot out behind them, dressed in his white lab coat and blue scrubs, an ID badge clipped to his pocket. He scanned the room, saw Sam and broke into a half-run, arms opening before he’d fully reached him, grabbing Sam up in a bone-crushing hug.

“You’re alright,” he gasped, though it sounded more for his own benefit than Sam’s. “You are. I...I just—Peter told me there’d been a shooting, and you were here...”

“I’m okay,” Sam said dully. Cas pulled away but kept his hands on his arms.

“Are you bleeding?”

“It’s Andy’s.”

“Where was he hit?”

“Shoulder. It was Max. He had a gun on Ash when I got in. Andy followed me when I didn’t wave that I was alright getting in the door.”

“Sit down,” Cas coaxed.

“I’m good.”

“You’re trembling.”

Sam realized it was true. Cas kept his bright blue eyes on him and smiled, leading him to a set of chairs and holding his arm as they both sat. “It’s alright now,” he soothed, rubbing Sam’s arm. “Have you called Dean?”

“No. I need...I’m trying to get my head around this. And I know Dean will come flying and start shouting and looking for someone to hit.”

“He does tend to transform into somewhat of a Hulk when you’re endangered,” Cas said, but his warm smile showed there were no recriminations from the previous episode with McCloud.

“I will call him though, so he doesn’t start yelling at you instead.”

“I’ve gotten very good at ignoring him. You taught me that.”

Sam felt his throat swelling. “Cas...”

“It’s alright,” his friend’s hand resumed rubbing his arm. “It’s alright. Let’s just sit here for a bit until you’re ready. I had an interesting conversation with Gabriel earlier. Would it help you to hear about it?”

Sam nodded. He liked Gabe, the other brother of Cas’s he’d met: he reminded him of a younger Dean, in some ways. He was certainly the only one of Cas’ elder brothers who acted anything like an elder brother: at least, anything like the type Sam was used to. Even growing up, he’d realized that Dean’s role in his life wasn’t necessarily the norm for most older siblings, but he was still stunned by how callously Cas’ extended family treated their youngest.

“So Gabe calls to tell me this, and then, in the background, I hear a female voice start shouting--she was there the whole time. Needless to say, he had to go immediately." Cas smiled. “Are you feeling any better?”

Sam realized he was: his heart was beating normally, his palms had stopped sweating, and the evil voice in his head had stopped chanting. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll call Dean, okay?”

“Andy’s Dad—I promised I’d call him.”

“Alright. Let’s do that. Do you have his number?”

“No. My phone’s in my bag back at the house.”

“Alright. Don’t worry. Come to my office, and we’ll make our calls, okay?”

Sam had never been to Cas’ office before. Cas lead him there, keeping a hand on his back or his arm, explaining the floors as they went, the various offices and waiting rooms, before unlocking the door to his own suite: plain, with two consulting chairs, a computer, a desk, his framed degrees on the wall, and a few medical texts stacked on the lone bookshelf. Cas offered him the seat that should be his own, and the phone, and took one of the consulting chairs for himself.

“Dial ‘9’ to indicate an outgoing call,” he explained.

“Can I access my e-mail? Andy sent me his Dad’s number awhile back, in case of emergency.”

“Of course.” Cas grabbed the keyboard and activated the computer, smiling to himself as he did. “I’m forbidden from sharing my password, but we have to change them every few months, so I’ll tell you—it’s ‘SoberSuperbowl2011.’”

Sam chuckled. As Cas was setting him up, his eyes wandered around the small space, and then the loan photo caught his eye. He’d seen it before: Jessica had taken it, the day they helped Cas and Dean move in to their new house. It was of the three of them on the porch: Sam and Dean were holding beers: Cas, a glass of wine. Dean had his tilted in a “cheers” motion, Sam was beaming—and a little sunburnt—and Cas was leaning against the porch rail looking tired but happy.

“I felt...after you and Dean stopped drinking, that it was wrong to keep that photo in the house,” Cas said slowly. “But I really do love it. I don’t have many photos of my own family, and—”

“That was a good day.”

“It was a frightening one.” Cas smiled when Sam looked up. “I was officially living with your brother, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I know you alone can empathize.”

Sam laughed. He remembered driving home with Jess, sore and tired and wanting nothing more than to shower and sleep, and Jess leaning back against the passenger headrest and saying “Dean and Cas are ridiculous about each other,” her way of saying _he’s not like the others. He’s going to take care of your big brother for you. Dean’s going to be happy, Sam. You can be too._

Cas turned the keyboard back toward him and took the phone in his hand. “I’ll call your brother,” he said.

“Buckle up,” Sam sighed.

***

Dean acted just as Sam expected: he yelled so loud Sam could hear him from the other side of the desk.

“What do you _mean_ that sonofabitch had a gun? Isn’t the whole point of that place to be a safe one? Wasn’t anyone warning them about that maniac at Rosemount? Why didn’t Ash realize he was going to snap? I _told_ you Sam should’ve come home to us, Cas, I _told_ you he shouldn’t be there!”

Cas listened stoically, finally saying “long ago, you told me Sam needed us to be calm for him, Dean—please be so now.”

Dean had sworn and hung up. Cas had replaced the receiver and looked warmly at Sam.

“You know he’s just scared for you, right? He’ll be calmer once he gets here. He just hates to think you weren’t safe, and he wasn’t there.”

“I know,” Sam sighed. “He shouldn’t yell at you though.”

“It doesn’t bother me. This job means dealing with many irate loved ones. And I know he’ll apologize later.” Cas smiled and turned the phone to him.

“Cas—people shouldn’t yell at you. You’re allowed to tell them to knock it off.”

“It’s just easier to take it sometimes. It’s not personal.” Cas’s voice softened. “I know that Dean would never hurt me, Sam. Not like your father, or Gordon, would hurt him. Sometimes, people get angry when they’re scared. I deal with that a lot. I don’t mind dealing with it from Dean. We both know he wants nothing but the best for those he loves.”

Sam looked back at the photo of the three of them. Felt dread stir in his stomach. He had to call Andy’s Dad. Andy had asked him to, and he was going to stick to it. Cas touched his arm lightly. “Go on,” he assured him. “I’m right here.”

***

As if to counterbalance Dean’s yelling, Mr. Gallagher is silent.

He asks “where was he shot?” and “where was he taken?” and “were you able to stay with him?” and “I’m on my way,” and disconnects.

Cas walks Sam back downstairs, where he asks about the progress of Andy’s surgery and tells them he wants to be kept up to date. Sam sits in a chair and breathes like Cas told him to and keeps it together, forcing himself _not_ to think of Andy.

That’s when the cops show.

***

They’re kind, and polite, and explain that they need to interview him privately. Cas touches his back and Sam gets to his feet and then sinks back in to his chair and _can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe_.

  
***

The cops say “we just have to ask a few questions.”

The cops say, “you’re not under suspicion of any wrong doing.”

The cops say, “you’re more than welcome to call a lawyer.”

Sam gasps for air and thinks _Dean, help me, help me, help me._

***

Dean barks “what part of ‘give us room’ are you not getting?” and seconds later, Sam is surrounded by _big brother_ , can bury his face in Dean’s shoulder and clutch his shirt and feel the warmth and safety of the person who’d protected him all his life.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, stroking his hair. “You didn’t do anything wrong. They know it. We know it. You have every right to feel safe there.”

Dean says, “No one is going to tell you this is your fault.”

Dean says, “No one is going to tell you you were wrong to live there.”

Dean says, “No one is going to lock you up again. I promise.”

And Sam pushes his face to his brother’s shoulder and cries himself out while Dean holds and rocks and hushes him, and allows himself perfect comfort, perfect acceptance, because Rosemount taught him that what he advocates for others he needs to accept for himself, and he lets himself have it, and he refuses to feel ashamed.

***

The cops explain that Max went to his childhood home and shot his father, uncle, and stepmother.

His father and uncle are dead, but his stepmother might make it.

Sam tells them everything while Dean sits next to him, rubbing his back.

When they leave the office the cops have used as an interrogation room--Dean limping slightly in his brand new foot brace, grumbling about 'gimping it forward'--Cas is talking to Balthazar, who gives him a small grin.

“Good news boys—Mr. Gallagher aced his surgery. He won’t be going swimming anytime soon, but he should recover his full range of motion. He’s up in the ICU—”

“ICU?” Sam gasped. Dean’s hand arrived in the small of his back and rubbed.

“That’s normal,” Cas said quickly. “All emergency surgeries spend some recovery time there.”

“No worries. I took the liberty to alert the fabulous red-head who oversees this place, and she asked me to pass on that she will personally pay him some visitation, since she clearly has a thing for your boy-toy,” Balthazar joked.

“Eat me,” Dean mumbled.

“Thank you, Peter,” Cas said quickly.

“Doctor?” a woman asked, approaching the three of them. She had a young boy by the hand, whose arm was in a bright green cast. “Thank you for everything.”

“Of course! Everyone, I’d like you to meet Matt, my newest little champ. Matt took a tumble from a tree house and barely let out a squeak.” Peter crouched in front of the boy, who had clearly been crying, and smiled warmly. “Now, I’d prefer if you don’t tell any of my other little friends, since I can’t possibly afford to be this generous with _all_ of them, but you were _so_ strong and brave today, I thought I might add to that coin collection your mother told me about.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. The boy’s eyes widened. “These are some ‘coins of the realm’—money from England, where I’m from. Be careful not to mix it in with the American stuff, okay? You’ll start a fight in your treasure chest.”

Matt smiled and took the coins. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Thank your mother. She was saintly in her patience,” he said with a wink, causing Matt’s mother to blush.

“Thank you so much, doctor,” she sighed, and tugged her son’s hand. “Come on, honey. Daddy ordered pizza.”

Sam smiled at Cas, only to catch a glimpse of a familiar face making his way to the nurse’s station. “I’ll be back,” he said quickly, pulling away from his brother and darting toward the _real_ Mr. Gallagher.

Andy’s Dad was standing by reception, looking close to tears. “My son...” was all he could manage to the on-duty nurse.

“Name?” she asked.

“Gallagher,” Sam said, stepping forward. “Andy—Andrew—Gallagher. He was in surgery for a bullet-wound to the shoulder.”

The nurse nodded and made a quick note on a plastic ID bracelet, which she hooked around Jack Gallagher’s wrist. Sam thanked her and lead him toward the elevators, casting a quick, reassuring nod to Dean and Cas.

“What happened?” Mr. Gallagher asked.

“He’s alright, sir,” Sam assured him.

“They said he was shot.”

“Just in the shoulder—”

“’Just?’” His voice cracked. “He was supposed to be _safe_ with you people!”

Sam tried hard not to show how badly that hurt. “Max, one of the residents where I live, snapped and apparently attacked his parents. When he got home, Ash, the head of our house, was there, and saw the blood and the gun. He turned on him. I came home, Max turned on me. Andy always waits for me to wave, but I couldn’t. He followed me in. Max shot him.”

Mr. Gallagher closed his eyes. The elevator door opened. He moved slowly down the hall, following Sam’s lead, until the reached the intensive care’s nurse’s station. Sam wasn’t allowed any farther, but the nurse’s gestured to a room off the side. Andy’s Dad took a few steps and then hesitated and turned back to Sam.

“My boy’s a good friend,” he said carefully. “I know he considers you to be the same.”

Sam nodded. The nurse pulled back a curtain, and Sam caught a glimpse of Andy, hooked up to tubes, beyond it. When his Dad appeared, Andy turned and grinned, still obviously drugged. Mr. Gallagher crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed his son’s forehead, smoothed his hair, and murmured “hey Raggedy Annie.” Andy’s hand found his father’s shirt and twisted.

“Hey Pop,” he mumbled. “Hurt my shoulder.”

“I heard.” Mr. Gallagher leaned back and smiled with a sudden, never-before-seen tenderness that reminded Sam so much of Dean it was all he could do not to run for the elevator bay and back to the safety of his brother. “Don’t worry, champ. I’ve got it from here. You hurting?”

“No,” Andy mumbled, than spotted Sam. “Sam? Y’okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sam smiled, clenching his sweaty palms at the edge of the bed. “How’re you feeling?”

“High.” Andy grinned, but the grin abruptly faded. “Dad? S’my writing...arm...”

“We’ve got it, buddy. We’ll get it fixed up and working again. Don’t worry.”

“Y’had a gig...” he mumbled. Mr. Gallagher’s eyes filled.

“Jesus, kid...stop worrying,” he pleaded, voice cracking. “I’m your Dad before I’m anything. Christ, I’m not _anything_ if I’m not your Dad.”

Andy pulled him closer a bit, and his father immediately smoothed his hair and murmured “easy does it, buddy,” and Sam felt a rush of grief and exhaustion.

Andy was supposed to be safe with him. Andy was supposed to be _safe_ with him.

Andy was supposed to be _safe_.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Sam said, and bolted past the curtain before Andy could protest.

By the time he made it to the lobby, Sam felt like he was sleepwalking. Dean and Cas were standing dutifully by the door: Dean was holding Sam’s coat. Ash was there, excitedly regaling them with his own version of events.

“You should of _seen_ it!” Ash was saying. “That bullet went right through my hair. This is _not_ a natural part. This is a holy head. I will never wash, dye, or style it again.”

Dean made a face. Cas’ eyebrows flew upward. “Wash?”

“Would you have washed the Shroud of Turin?"

“Assuming it smelled like your head?” Dean scoffed. “Yeah.”

Dean’s eyes drifted and caught Sam’s, and his posture and face immediately assumed what Sam had long ago associated with ‘big brother.’ “Hey,” he murmured.

Sam wandered over, feeling sluggish and slow. Dean lay a warm hand on his upper arm and squeezed.

“Hero party!” Ash declared, clapping a little too loudly. Sam suddenly, viciously, wanted to be in Dean and Cas’ living room. He wanted quiet and seclusion. He wanted to speak to _Dean_ without the audience or fear of one, like he’d been able when they were young. It didn’t matter how many people they had in their lives—paid or unpaid. There were times when Sam just needed Dean and Dean just needed Sam, and, for the moment, he hated anyone who was an interloper on their private little life.

“Hey, Ash,” Dean said cheerfully. “I’m gonna get Sam home, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. Do what you gotta. Me, I’ve got a load of explaining to do back at the house.”

He turned, beaming, to Sam. “Friggin’ _crime scene_ , bro! And you were Magnum!”

“Thanks, Ash,” Sam managed. Ash gave him a squeeze and drifted off, high-fiving nurses and doctors as he went.

Dean stepped forward and held out his jacket, and Sam let his brother help him into it as if he’s a kid again, getting ready to be walked to school.

“If it’s okay,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “can I stay the night at yours?”

Dean put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. “C’mon, bud,” he murmured. “Let’s go home.”

***

Dean had made beef stew. Not terrible tasting—and marvelous smelling—beef stew, with warm Italian bread and a big block of cheddar to go with it. Cas had been quick to point out “look! There’s carrots and celery and onions—vegetables!”

“And potatoes,” Dean had snapped.

“Potatoes aren’t a vegetable,” Cas had said with a long-suffering sigh.

Sam would have joined in their banter, but he settled for smiling. Truth be told, he wasn’t anxious, or depressed, or even sad. He just felt tired. And a bit dazed. Max hadn’t been one of his good friends—he’d always thought he was kind of weird—but he’d been in the halfway house the entire time Sam had lived there. He’d been to their Superbowl party. He’d been to all the events Andy organized. He was just... _there._

“Guess what’s on tonight?” Dean said cheerfully. “Gremlins. Christmas classic. Yeah it’s not Christmas, but Cas is going to make the cocoa. I bought the gingerbread men.”

“This is our honest-to-God-date night, Sam,” Cas smiled. “In case you ever wonder about what we do when you’re not here.”

“I don’t want to interrupt,” Sam said dully. “I might just...go to bed.”

“You love Gremlins,” Dean prodded. “When you were a kid you used to go on and on about how you’d die for a Gizmo, except you didn’t trust me not to feed it.”

“I believe he didn’t trust you not to leave food lying around after midnight,” Cas corrected.

“Whatever. C’mon. Watch enough to drink your hot chocolate. Cas really makes it mean.”

“If you call ‘milk’ mean.”

“Milk is for very sugary cereal and nothing more.”

“We have it for coffee.”

“It shouldn’t even _grace_ coffee.”

Sam forced a smile, but he couldn’t feel their cheer. He couldn’t feel anything at all, except tired. If he’d been able to vanish and sit, invisible, watching, in the kitchen, he’d have done so, just to be close to his brother— _brothers_ —without having to feel a need to participate in their small talk.

When they got up to clear the dishes, Sam barely noticed until Dean’s hands landed, broad and warm, on his shoulders. He started, reached to clear his bowl, and found Cas already there. He wanted to speak, to thank him, to explain, and was embarrassed by the strange, weak sound coming from his throat. Dean leaned close murmured, “It’s alright, Sammy. You don’t have to talk. Just take your time. Relax. You’re home.”

And Sam had briefly closed his eyes and indulged in the luxury of his brother’s unconditional embrace.

***

Sam woke, warm and a bit disorientated, head on Dean’s shoulder. The Gremlins were in the movie theater. Cas was fast asleep, head on the arm of the couch, feet on the floor. Dean chuckled lightly at the screen.

Sam hated to admit it, but he didn’t want to admit he was awake. Didn’t want to have to separate from his brother. He stayed very still, but should of known better. Dean dropped an arm around him and squeezed gently.

“You good, bro?” he asked softly. Sam nodded, sleepily. “Don’t worry about the next few days. Cas talked to Alan—everyone’s gone elsewhere. We can take you over in the afternoon, pick up whatever you need.”

“Poor Ash,” Sam said with a yawn. “He screened us all.”

“He’ll land on his feet. Always does.”

“Except the time he landed on Bobby,” Sam reminded him. Dean laughed.

“Oh God I’d cut off my arm to have that on tape.” Dean’s hand moved lightly on his shoulder, rubbing a small circle. “Look...sorry if I went off. I shouldn’t have. I know the house is important to you. And I think you made the right decision. But don’t you tell Missouri.”

Sam chuckled. “Chicken.”

“Survivor.”

Sam was quiet for a bit, watching the Gremlins laughing at the movie screen. When the fire started, Dean quickly switched over to the news. “I get it,” Sam murmured. “If it was you living in a house where that had happened, I don’t think I’d be cheering it on either.”

“Dude, you’d be kicking in the door and shouting in my face and sitting by my bed with a bat and you know it.”

It was true. He’d done all those things before, although under different circumstances. Because Dean was Dean and Sam was Sam and, to them, while it may not be alright for one another, they’d bear it for themselves. Which was probably one of their biggest problems. And one of the reasons they loved Cas—he accepted their willingness to sacrifice themselves for one another, and even admired it. Others had looked on their relationship as unhealthy and co-dependent and a million other things, but Cas understood how wide the world could seem with no one to care for you, and joined them without judgment or question.

“I can’t say I’m thrilled you jumped at an unhinged murderer. Though I can’t say I’m not proud you brought him down on his ass anyway.”

Sam nodded, the softness of Dean’s tee reassuring on his cheek. “He...never spoke all that much. But I know his Dad and Uncle used to drink and then beat him to hell.”

“That’s no reason to shoot them. And his stepmom.”

“She never helped him.”

“Again, that doesn’t mean he gets to _kill_ them, Sammy.”

Sam was quiet for a moment, watching the television without taking it in. Cas snored. “He said...that I was a spoiled brat. That I didn’t appreciate you as my brother.”

“What part of ‘homicidal maniac’ do you not understand?”

“He said...imagine going up against two our Dads, completely alone.” He swallowed, feeling his throat swell, a shudder claim him. Dean gave him a light squeeze. “If it weren’t for you...maybe I would have been like that. Maybe I would have killed Dad. I wanted to. I came close once or twice, when he was hitting you. If it weren’t for you...I never would have recovered, or _wanted_ to.”

“But you _did_ have me. And you _didn’t_ kill Dad. And you _did_ recover. And you saved two friends today, two good men who didn’t deserve to die because his childhood sucked.” Dean’s hand wound into his hair and stroked gently, just like when he was a kid.

“I haven’t...always appreciated you, Dean—”

“Can it, bud. I mean it. I don’t always get an A on the brother report card either. But that doesn’t mean what Max did, or said, is justified. He could have killed you. And Ash and Andy. And you were all just trying to _help_.”

“I’m—” Sam’s voice wavered. “I’m just trying to thank you, man.”

Dean huffed against him. “You ever think about me in all this? Where I would be if it weren’t for my pain-in-the-ass little brother?”

“Probably—”

“You say better off and I will break your nose. Sammy—I’ve lied, cheated, stole, defrauded insurance and credit card companies, hustled pool, broken into homes and businesses. And you can say it was all for you, but if it _wasn’t . I_ t felt _good_ to do those things, and you had nothing to do with it. It was a way of fighting back. It was a way of feeling I was besting a system stacked against us. And I was _good_ at it. I’d think about dropping out, hooking up with a serious crime organization, _succeeding_. And then I’d come home and you’d be all emo about a goddamn oil spill off the coast of fuckistan and the kids that would go hungry and the friggin’ fish that would die. And I’d feel like an ass.”

“It was Turkmenistan,” Sam mumbled, smiling when Dean huffed.

“My point is—that psycho doesn’t get to dictate what anyone deserves or not. And he sure as hell doesn’t get to pass ultimate judgment on who _lives_ or not. I get that things were bad, and he was hurting. But that gives him the right to destroy the lives of other families? Ash’s, Andy’s? Me and Cas? No. If you hadn’t taken him down, and he’d of shot you? I’d go to jail for the rest of my life before I let him see another sunrise.”

Sam’s throat ached. “I just...I don’t want anything to happen to you. Or Cas. Or Andy or—I lose _everyone_.”

“Not me. Not Cas. Not Andy or Ash or Missouri or Alan.” He gave him a light squeeze once more. “It’s gonna be okay, Sammy. You’ve got a whole crowd here for you. Don’t try and deal with it all at once. And not on your own. We’re all here.”

What Sam heard, loud and clear, was _I’m here, and I love you_. _No matter what_. And that was what he needed most of all.

“Watch this,” Dean said, and poked Cas. Cas bolted upright like he’d been electrocuted, eyes staring straight in front of him.

“I’m up,” he said automatically.

“Bedtime for bonzo, buddy,” Dean said.

“Yes,” Cas agreed, unblinking. Sam chuckled.

“Cas...you okay?”

“I’ll be there, immediately,” Cas answered.

Sam glanced at Dean, who was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “America’s finest medical professionals. Sleep-prescribing.”

At their laughter, Cas seemed to shake himself awake, turned and glared. “That isn’t endearing, Dean.”

“Lucky for me, I’m not out to ‘dear,’ Cas.”

“Do you know who I almost married?”

“No, because you’re too scared to bring me home.”

For a minute, Sam tensed, seeing Cas register this. Seconds later, he smiled, recognizing the teasing, and met Dean’s eyes.

“She’s beautiful. Tall, blonde, strong, smart, and going to be the District Attorney of New York City one day.”

“And I care because?”

“Because, what are you brining to the table?”

“Great looks, great humor, and great company?”

“You think so very highly of yourself, Dean.”

Dean smiled in that warm, wonderful way that always bolstered Sam, and Cas beamed when it was turned on him.

“What do you think, Sammy?” Dean teased. “Think Cas is turning into one of us?”

Sam grinned, hoping his warmth and love carried through to his friend. “I think we’re bad influences.”

“How about that, Cas? Want to be a bad influence?”

Cas smiled at Sam. “There are worse things to be.”

***

Sam changed in to one of the pajama sets Dean and Cas always kept for him. He brushed his teeth with the toothbrush they kept in the guestroom, washed his face with his favorite soap, and, moments after climbing into bed, found Dean at his side.

“You think you can sleep?”Dean asked. Sam settled back on the soft pillows, the firm but comfortable mattress, and the blankets and sheets. Smiled.

“Sure.”

Dean reached out and shuffled hair off his forehead. Sam couldn’t help his stupid, little-kid grin. “I’ll be okay, Dean.”

“You take you meds?”

“Yup.”

“If you need—”

“You and Cas are right down the hall. I know.”

“And nothing you do—”

“Will bother you.”

“Right. Because—”

“You don’t mind being there for me.”

“Right. We—”

“Support one another, even when we can’t see how we do.”

Dean shook his head. “Asshole,” he mumbled, even as his hand moved through Sam’s hair and smoothed gently. Sam smiled.

“Dean...I’m not thinking of using. Or drinking. I just...want to be here right now.”

“And that’s not a bad thing. You’re—”

“Can you just shutup and sit with me?”

“Brat,” he mumbled, smiling. Sam curled against his brother’s leg and hip and closed his eyes, letting him pet his head. Dean had tried so hard to chase out the bad memories in this room, tried to paint over and recover and rearrange the nights of being here after Jess, and after Dad, and during times when he was using and hung over and feverish and so depressed he thought he’d die. Dean’s whole life was trying to clear the path of monsters so Sam could walk along after him in comfort and safety. And Sam wanted to tell him he loved him, _so much_ , and couldn’t even figure out how without wandering into a tangle of guilt.

“Tomorrow...can we stop by the halfway house? I want to lend Peanut to Andy.”

“You didn’t lend _me_ Peanut when I had my war-wound.”

“You have Thromdor.”

“Screw Thromdor. What I _really_ want is a video of Bobby paying for them.”

“We’ll have to show Ellen how to use the camera on her phone. I’m sure she’d love to document it.”

Cas appeared in the doorway. “Sam, would you like me to give you something to help you sleep?”

Sam pulled away from Dean to smile at him. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“If you change your mind, we’ll be right down the hall. I’m a light sleeper, as your brother demonstrated.” Cas kept all the meds he stashed for Sam double-locked, so the younger Winchester never had to deal with the temptation to abuse them.

Dean held out a hand to his boyfriend and said “Alrighty, Lancelot, come give your poor injured Arthur a hand up, huh?”

“You aren’t as charming as you think Dean,” Cas muttered, but he slid an arm around his waist and carefully helped him to his feet. “I left a pain pill by your toothbrush.”

“I’ll keep you around awhile longer,” Dean grinned. “Night, Sammy. If you need anything, just holler for Cas.”

“Jerk,” Sam called. Dean flipped him off playfully and made his way down the hall. Sam stretched and settled back against the pillows with a yawn, reached for the bedside lamp, and realized that Cas was still standing there, staring. “You okay?”

“Of course.”

Cas continued to stare at him.

“Um...no offense but...you’re looking at me kinda gay.”

The elder man smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m just...I’m so very, very grateful that you’re safely home.”

Sam felt himself blush. “Thank you.”

“Sleep well, Sam.”

“You too.”

Cas closed the door for him, leaving it slightly ajar so Dean and he could hear if he had a nightmare. Sam could already feel the valium pulling him under, but despite the stress of the day, he wasn’t afraid to dream.

The halfway-house was important to him. It was compliant with his program. It was filled with people living the challenges he’d faced. It was out of the way of Dean and Cas. But under the covers, with the sound of his brother and pseudo-brother’s soft voices as they moved about in their room, he suddenly ached to stay put. He wanted out from the constant, 24/7 monitoring, the checks, the incessant platitudes. He wanted to be in a place where people treated him normally, where support was readily available but never forced, where he could, for the first time, leave behind the bubble of treatment and return to the real world. He could keep an eye on Dean and Cas. He could help clean the house and do the laundry and pay rent. He could run errands and cook dinners. He could, maybe, go back to school.

He was scared. Scared of relapse. Scared of burdening the people he loved. Scared they’d tell him he wasn’t welcome. Just plain _scared_.

But here, under the blanket Dean had bought while he was new to Rosemount, surrounded by photos of him and Cas and even Jess and Maddy and his Mom, he felt a little stronger. A little more able to face everything. And, come the morning, he knew, no matter what his imagination said otherwise, that when he broached the topic, Dean and Cas would smile and tell him that this room, this bed, and his place in their home, had always been his. He never even had to ask.


End file.
